NatureNurture
by Monty Twain
Summary: Bit angsty, but don't you just love it? Watson patches Holmes up, just before Final Problem- and hints at the "attempts on Holmes' life" that Holmes talks about, though technically it isn't Canon in dates.


Nature-nurture

It was late- my eyes itched.

Holmes had slashed his arm, or rather had it had been slashed, right the way up from the elbow, diagonally to the tender flesh near the armpit. It was a nasty wound, very bloody. Holmes was not a man to ask for assistance in any matter unless it was absolutely necessary, but he looked quite faint and whiter than a new page of a book as he staggered up the stairs and collapsed into his armchair.

"Holmes! You're hurt!" I said, leaping from my own chair. His blood had soaked through his black jacket, and was browning slightly around the edges- with Holmes' methods, I had deduced that he had been hurt some time ago, and probably hadn't even tried to get home because he was so busy. I would have told him about my reasoning if he hadn't been in such obvious pain.

"I have rather, haven't I?" He said weakly. I peeled his jacket off him and he limply slipped out, and he revealed a soaking shirt beneath. The cut was deep, and Holmes appeared to have lost a lot of blood very quickly already. I dashed off for my kit, some brandy for Holmes, and a bowl of water to clean it with. In moments, I was back. I handed him the brandy to him and he drank gratefully. I took some scissors and tore off the rest of the shirt arm (even if it was worth sewing back up, the stain would never come out) exposing the raw flesh. I pulled a candle lamp closer to look properly.

"Oh, Holmes."

"I'm sorry, Watson." I didn't know why he was apologising, but it seemed appropriate.

"You should have come home right away and had this cleaned up, you lost a dangerous amount of blood-"

"I did come home right away! It's just that home was rather further away than I anticipated due to some… obstructions."

"It's ghastly for your health Holmes," I said while washing the wound. Holmes' muscle tensed, but he made no verbal complaint. He didn't answer. "This is going to need sewing up," I murmured. I looked up to Holmes. His eyes were unfocused, not in a thoughtful way but in extreme exhaustion.

"Are you alright?" Still no answer. "Holmes? Speak, man!"

Holmes glanced up at me. "Watson, I really feel quite dizzy, I'm sorry."

"Look at me." He looked up at me.

"Right at me." I had stopped cleaning the arm, and was preparing my needle. His eyes met mine but they struggled to stay straight. "Keep looking at me, Holmes, it's vital you don't fall unconscious, you hear?" He breathed through his teeth heavily grey slates levelled on me.

I finally had to break his intense gaze, to thread the needle. His hair flopped over and he moved it out of the way with his other hand. "Now, Holmes, do you trust me?"

"Of course."

"That's important."

"Why?"

"You have to trust a doctor, especially when he's doing stitching without anaesthetic, and in such an _awkward_ place."

"You are very much nurture rather than a nature person."

"One of us has to be." I said softly, tying a knot in the end of my thread. "Now, you have to watch this, and focus, Holmes."

There was silence for a moment as he watched me make the initial stitch, the needle going in the wound and coming out on the other side of the cut.

"How come you aren't stitching the skin?" he asked. The candle flickered in a breeze from a crack in the window.

"I am, just-" I trailed off while I threaded though his arm. I felt him bite the air silently in pain. "-I'm in a little deeper. You don't want stitches to reach the outer layer of skin, it's untidy, not to mention itchy and uncomfortable for you."

"Ah, I see." He watched with a morbid fascination, his eyes a little less dim- they glittered in the light, slightly more moist than usual, but certainly concentrating.

I stitched through again, made a suturing knot and continued. It was a long cut, but narrow.

"Holmes, was this done with a knife?"

"Yes."

"And you put up your arm to protect yourself?"

There was a pause. "Yes. He would have killed me if I hadn't put my arm up then." I nearly jumped.

"And this man chased you?"

"Yes, him and others. All the way through East London, until I came to a busy main road and lost myself in the crowds, then I had a chance to get a cab." This was dire. I closed my eyes and felt my chest tense.

I had come to the end of the stitching, but in case of any other blood that could seep out, not to mention protection from infection; I wrapped his arm in a rough bandage. Holmes studied me as I did this, his eyes trying to lift mine. I was angry for Holmes, and he knew it. He had clearly only told me half of the story, and it was probably much worse than he let on. My tongue rammed against the roof of my mouth with repressed emotion.

"Watson, I have already said you are on the nature side of the equation. Well, this is my nature- I don't intentionally go looking for trouble, but sometimes these _damn_ things catch me up in my line of work." His voice was a thin whisper, but it rose to normal volume on his coarse, fervently spoken expletive.

"I know, Holmes." We both looked down at Holmes' bandage. He shivered and I saw goose-bumps rise on his arm.

"You should get a shirt on; your immune system is going to be bad enough from your blood shock, let alone getting pneumonia as well."

"While I'm gone, be a good chap and get a whiskey out."

"Very well."

He came back, and for a while, we talked normally again, but he fell asleep in a few minutes. He was still cold, and after a minute or so of watching him shiver in his sleep, I put a blanket over him.

"If you trust me, why won't you let me help you?" I said finally in an undertone, and I retired to bed.


End file.
